


only if for a night

by MasterofAllImagination



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s06e09 Impact Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterofAllImagination/pseuds/MasterofAllImagination
Summary: A decade of unfinished business finds its natural resolution.
Relationships: John Hoynes/Josh Lyman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	only if for a night

“Matthew Santos,” Hoynes repeats. “The Texas Congressman.”  
  
The sun’s low and shining orange through the blinds at Josh’s back. He’d made an appointment—no dark car on an anonymous street this time, but his own name, put down by the scheduler at Hoynes’ firm. Only the paralegals were still in the office.   
  
“Yeah,” Josh says, as if he can’t believe himself, either.  
  
Hoynes doesn’t get the joke. “How long ago did he approach you.”

“I approached him. A few times, actually.”

“And you convinced him.”

“I did.”

Hoynes resents, in the wake of those words, every shred of the Bartlet-addled conscience which apparently made Josh Lyman think that turning down the offer to run Hoynes’ campaign was something he had to do in person. Anger twists his mouth. “Well, Josh, that’s me told, then, I suppose.”

“Mr Vice President—”

“If that’s all you have to say to me then you shouldn’t have wasted my time.”

Josh’s eyes slide away.

Now that he's said his piece, Hoynes expects him to get up and walk to the door, and he raises his eyebrows, waiting. Instead, Josh looks around the room and says, “I read your book.”

Hoynes couldn’t be less moved. It was the least he could do. “Oh yeah?”

“On the plane. You know—I hadn’t thought about that trip to Narragansett in years,” Josh says, scratching his jaw. “That was a terrible trip.”

“It was a fine trip,” Hoynes says flatly.

“It rained the whole time. You insisted on taking that boat out. The waves were six feet tall—”

“The waves were _not_ six feet tall.”

Josh’s thumbs flip over and over themselves atop his crossed knees. “Even the kids stayed in the hotel. But I was the most junior member on your staff, and I wanted to impress the boss.”

The wunderkind of the Democratic party sits in his office, with an ego big enough to make him think he has a chance at getting a dark horse candidate elected president, yet a streak of insecurity running deeply enough to clip his wings at every other turn. God must have laughed the day he made Josh Lyman.

Hoynes tilts his head. “The fact that I’d invited you, and not any of the others, wasn’t a pretty good indication that you already had?”

Josh’s thumbs still.

“Josh,” he tuts.

But the damn kid had flown to Texas two days after being offered a place at Hoynes' right hand. Josh knows how tough this election will be for him, and here he is, letting him down yet again. “A phone call would have been fine,” he says, and the forbearance is gone.

“I’m sorry,” Josh says. Ten years in Washington still haven’t taught him how to keep his emotions out of his eyes. He opens and then closes his mouth. “It’s—I’m sorry. I should go.” He braces his hands on the arms of the chair.

“Last chance, Josh,” Hoynes says coolly. 

Half-standing, Josh changes his mind with a jerk, then seems to change it again before sitting down completely. Hoynes looks at his watch. If this goes on much longer, he’ll have to call Suzanne and tell her not to wait up.

“That trip,” Josh says.

“What _about_ the trip.”

“There was a weather delay on the way back. In the book, you wrote, ‘Josh Lyman, displaying his negotiating acumen, procured tickets for my entire family on the earliest rescheduled flight.’”

“I do seem to remember writing that.”

“You didn’t include the part where I could only get four tickets,” Josh says, “and you told Toni to take the kids ahead, because you were going to stay and wait with me on standby.”

It really had been a horrible trip. Even a decade later, he still remembers how much like a soaked dog Josh had looked, backpack slung over one shoulder, waving goodbye to Hoynes’s kids at the gate, not a moment’s hesitation over spending the night on hard airport chairs while the Hoynes family was home and dry by supper. 

So they’d eaten bad pizza together at the only restaurant still open and shot the breeze about the upcoming session. Outside of his Senate office, without Toni or the kids; with Josh’s caffeine-wired mouth in his ear, Hoynes had felt like a different man.

_“We should get a hotel,” Hoynes had said to Josh, rubbing his eyes. “Get a few hours’ sleep.”_

_“I’m fine, Senator,” Josh had said. “Unless you—”_

_“If you’re fine, I’m fine.”_

It was the first time that trip Josh hadn’t used his name. 

Hoynes sits there, chin to his chest, and realizes, belatedly, how that must have played. The Josh in front of him—older and only so much wiser—doesn’t flinch when Hoynes, thoroughly startled, finally looks up.

“John,” Josh says.

If this is the consolation prize Josh’s guilty conscience is offering, Hoynes doesn’t see any reason why he should turn it down.

“You going to buy me a drink first?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Josh says quietly.

“Good. Then let’s go.”

He gets up and puts on his coat, and for once, Josh goes with him.

* * *

At the hotel check-in, Josh glances sideways.

“It’s alright,” Hoynes says out of the corner of his mouth. “They know me.”

If Josh is going to get cold feet he needs to do it now. But Josh just swallows and puts his hands in his pockets, letting Hoynes lead him to the elevator with a light hand on his upper arm. 

It’s quiet in the room. Hoynes takes Josh by the back of the neck and kisses him immediately, rough, no fooling around, and Josh’s fingers clench around the lapels of his overcoat. He can hear the low _shush_ of wool sliding against wool as he pushes Josh back onto the bed and moves over him, fully clothed, his tie hanging over Josh’s chest, and underneath that, Josh’s rapid breathing. 

He takes his time getting used to the feeling of Josh’s tongue wrapped around his own. When he goes to work on Josh’s shirt, a second set of hands collides with his, trying to do the same thing. He pins Josh’s wrists to the coverlet one after another. “Stay,” he tells him.

Josh stays. He only moves again to shift his pants down his hips after Hoynes has slid his belt free.

Hoynes has to step off the bed to take care of his own clothes. He hears two thuds behind him: Josh’s shoes landing on the floor. Hoynes at least takes a moment to drape his jacket and pants over a chair. By the time he turns back, Josh is propped on his elbows, chest rising and falling hard, watching him. His shorts are gone and his dick is hard.

This isn’t what either of them want, but it’s what they can have: one night in which Hoynes gets Josh entirely to himself, and Josh can be Hoynes’ man without feeling like he’s betraying someone else in the process.

Josh reaches out an arm. Hoynes steps into him and lets Josh run his hands over Hoynes’ bare shoulders. When Josh licks his lips, Hoynes obliges, sucking in a deep breath and bending to seal their mouths together, a little sloppy but far from mindless, bringing a small groan from Josh. 

There’s more skin, after that. An impatient arrangement of limbs. The sheets stripped back and Josh’s wayward hair pushed up in all directions from his receding hairline. Josh puts his hands at Hoynes' waist and gives him a light shove, and it takes him a moment to realize Josh is trying to wriggle free.

“Where are you going?”

“—one second,” Josh says, from the floor. He’s rifling around in his discarded clothes.

“Give me that,” Hoynes says.

Grinning, Josh puts the lube into his hand.

Hoynes braces one hand next to Josh’s head as he fucks him, an intermittent palm around Josh’s dick and an annoying tremor in his weight-bearing elbow that starts up a minute or so before he finishes. By that time, Josh is keyed up and still somehow hard, sinew standing out in his neck.

“Jesus, Josh,” Hoynes says, gasping for breath. “Relax.”

“I am,” Josh grunts.

Hoynes shifts some of his weight onto his knees. “What’s gonna do it for you, Josh?” he asks, dragging his fingers down to Josh’s balls. “You want me to talk to you?”

Josh’s thighs splay a little wider.

“Take that as a yes,” Hoynes murmurs.

He jerks him idly for a moment. He already knows what to say, except it isn’t something one puts to voice—you know and he knows that you know, but you don’t confront him with it. You don’t do that to a man.

But Josh had shown up at his office and forced Hoynes to watch him say _no_.

“You want me to tell you how much I need you,” Hoynes says, and it’s not a question. “Because I do need you, Josh; that’s just a fact.” He drinks in Josh’s slack face and half-lidded eyes. “I can’t win without your mind. Your insight. Your bulldog tenacity. And I’m not gonna tell you how to run my campaign, Josh, because you know what needs to be done. The only thing you’re gonna hear from me at the end of the day is how well you did.”

At the edge of his register, Josh moans. “Please," he says, like maybe he wants him to stop. 

“That’s what you need, Josh. You think Matt Santos knows that about you? I know that about you, Josh. _I_ do. You wanna hear how well you’ve done, how useful you’ve been for me—for _me—_ and I’m the only one who’s gonna tell you.”

Josh bites down on his forearm, curls a fist into Hoynes’ hair, and comes apart.

* * *

In the morning, he’s careful not to disturb Josh—although he doesn’t think he could; Josh has proven an incredibly heavy sleeper—as he pulls his boxers and undershirt back on, walking soundlessly to the door and checking for the paper. He sits up against the headboard while he reads.

A quarter of an hour later, Josh stirs.

“You snore,” Hoynes informs him.

“So I’ve been told,” Josh mutters. “What time is it.”

“A little before seven.”

Josh drags himself vertical in fits and starts. Gangly and uncoordinated, he stretches out, and their calves brush. “I’m gonna. Get some water,” Josh says.

There’s a pitcher and a glass right on the nightstand, but Hoynes doesn’t begrudge him the pretext.

Josh takes half the sheets with him when he slides from the bed. Hoynes glances up once or twice as he hunts around for his clothes, still nude, and takes them into the bathroom. When he gets back he pours a glass of water after all and gulps it in three swallows.

Something clinks on the nightstand. “Oh, this one’s, uh—”

Hoynes looks over. Josh is holding out his watch. For a moment, the two of them each silently fiddle with their watch clasps.

Josh nods a chin at the paper. “Anything important?”

“Not much,” he says. 

Hoynes has done this before. Clearly, Josh hasn’t. 

At last, Josh says, “I’d, ah. Better get going."

Hoynes trails him to the door. Josh fiddles with his coat, runs a hand through his hair, then says, low and all at once, “The interview played well. Values voters may not bounce back, but you can work through that. Russell is a stuffed shirt with no foreign policy experience, and the quicker you call him out, the better—”

“Josh,” Hoynes says firmly. 

Josh’s eyes go wide and his voice trails off. Eventually, he nods. “Yeah.” Then he says, “Good luck, sir.”

He says it like only Josh Lyman can: like he truly means it, with a fragile care that not even a bullet and a decade in professional politics has managed to beat from him; with the same vein of tenderness that keeps him loyal to whatever higher power he sees in Leo McGarry and Jed Bartlet.

Hoynes’ brows draw together, and he suddenly wants to touch Josh very badly, to reach for him like he’d done last night. 

Roughly, he says, “Goodbye, Josh.”

They’re done. Josh steps out. 


End file.
